


Dead Space

by olddarkmachine



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, Blood and Violence, Eventual Smut, M/M, cuz anyone can find time to boink during a zombie apocalypse if they try hard enough, eventual happy ending i swear, horror (at least an attempt at it)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:08:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23879686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olddarkmachine/pseuds/olddarkmachine
Summary: It starts the day the hero falls. Crashing in a blaze of glory of twisted metal and burning ozone, he leaves a scar on the Earth that changes everything.And Keith sees it all.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 41
Kudos: 54





	1. an end, a beginning (A Prologue)

**Author's Note:**

> So I’ve been thinking about this fic for over a year now, and I thought that it would be great for a Big Bang. That being said, my schedule got fucked and I couldn’t hang with the Big Bang any longer. While a bummer, means I can post this on my own time now, which is far from a bummer lol SO, with that being said, please enjoy my attempt at the zombie au I could never get out of my head. Plans to update will probably be every other week unless my schedule gets back to normal sooner rather than later

It starts the day the hero falls. Crashing in a blaze of glory of twisted metal and burning ozone, he leaves a scar on the Earth that changes everything.

And Keith sees it all.

“Shiro,” he breathes, as he watches the dust cloud begin to settle from where the bright light had crashed itself into the desert.

_Sad news today as we report the loss of the Kerberos mission._

The news report plays itself like a broken, repeated loop through Keith’s head as he revved the hover bike’s engine. It snarls like a hungry animal before taking off, streaking through the night toward the dark bloom marring the sky and hiding the stars.

_We’ve received confirmation that the cause was pilot error._

_A memorial was held today to celebrate the lives of the three crew members lost_.

Gritting his teeth against the scalding memories of the televised lies that battered themselves against the inside of his skull, Keith pushed the hover bike faster. Its growl keens higher, almost pained as if leeching off the bitter thoughts tickling the back of his tongue.

Keith had known that they couldn’t really be lost. That _he_ couldn’t have really been lost.

He’s felt it in his gut like an undeniable truth that had wrought itself into his blood, and burnt itself into his bones until it was all he had felt. Shiro was alive. He was sure of it in the very way he was sure of the steady cadence of his own heartbeat as it battered its shape into the back of his ribs.

It was a truth that Keith had ended up fighting for.

One that he had ended up losing everything for.

At the end of all things, he had been the one to burn the carefully constructed card house of his own dreams down to the ground, and yet he couldn’t even find it in himself to regret it. After all, he wasn’t sure he could even want those dreams if it had meant abandoning his truth.

Abandoning Shiro.

 _“He never gave up on me,”_ Keith had snarled, teeth bared as he’d struggled against the tight hold of the guards, all the while his focus set on Iverson. _“We can’t give up on him.”_

Then, when that had fallen on deaf ears and on the broken on the back of a pitying stare,

_“I can’t give up on him.”_

_“Son, you have to let him go,”_ Iverson had said, low and slow, as if speaking to a frightened animal. Keith’s sure that’s what he had looked like anyway, with the blood smeared across his chin and the edge turning his gaze into a sharp weapon.

_“He’s gone.”_

“He isn’t gone,” Keith growls in reply to the phantom voice that had plagued his nightmares, echoing his own past sentiment before he had been forcefully dragged from the Garrison’s ground. There’s a tang of deja vu that fills his mouth as he follows the very same path he’d torn across when he’d left, the bike carrying him across the dirt as he was blinded by his fury.

Now, his gaze is all too clear as he eyes the cloud that looms ever closer upon his approach to the point of impact.

Light, bright and domineering over the night, grows like a bleeding halo up from the dirt as he starts to cut his speed.

Nothing could surprise him about seeing the Garrison already there. Something dark and twisted moves behind his sternum, sinking its claws into the bone as it hisses that they must have already known that _he_ would fall.

Slowing to a crawl, Keith cuts the power to the bike and lets it settle into a stop just outside the ring of light cast around the impact zone by the tall construction lights.

The white of the lighting dulls the scarlet earth of the desert, sucking the color out of the scene and turning it monochromatic as Keith pushes his gaze along the ground and over the large tent that stands as a center point of the light rigs.

Shoddy fencing, nothing more than chain link and metal poles, stands between him and the makeshift camp, and every few feet stands signs that read **MILITARY PROPERTY NO TRESPASSING** in thick angry red lines.

It forces a chuckle from his dry throat as he pulls himself from the bike, and leaves it standing behind a dried bush.

 _Funny_ , he thinks as he pulls the bandana that hangs loosely around his neck up over his nose, and makes a grab for the knife that’s attached to his hip. With an expert flourish, he pulls it free of its sheath, and boldly steps up to the fence.

The Garrison wouldn’t have spared much personnel for this venture to avoid suspicion, that much Keith knows. Pair that with what little time had passed since the crash, he was certain that those who would be there would undoubtedly be busy.

Far too busy to notice him as he cut his way through the flimsy metal wire.

It gives without much pomp or circumstance, curling in like a dying bud as Keith pushes through the gap he’s created.

Silence, eerie and thick lays across the camp as he flips the knife in his hold, letting the flat of the blade press against the inside of his wrist as he moves quietly toward the tent’s opening. The well lit area leaves no shadows to cling to as Keith boldly walks across the dirt, gaze weary as he watches for any sign of movement.

The air is still, settling over him like a second skin and stalling the breath in his lungs as Keith pushes the tent flap to the side and steps in.

A beep, high pitched and steady, greets him as he lets the canvas fall closed behind him to trap himself with the scene set before him.

Bodies clothed in white biohazard suits lay across the ground, crumpled and twisted like marionettes cut from their strings as they surrounded a table at the center of the tent, almost like a macabre sacrifice.

The soft hiss of radio static provides a soundtrack to the quiet as he tracks the ring of bodies.

Only one is set outside of it.

Face tilted sideways, the Garrison officer stares up at Keith with eyes wide with frozen terror and mouth open around a silent scream. Darkness paints the inside of his gaping maw an unnatural black, coating his teeth with an odd grime and making the few inches of his mouth look like an unending depth.

Swallowing down the sudden spike of his own heartbeat, Keith tears his stare away from the officer, carefully stepping over him and making his way to the metal table, and the body that lays atop it.

Thick straps of old brown leather lay across the body’s chest, waist, and legs, holding it down like an animal.

Holding _him_ down.

“Shiro,” Keith breathes, voice a harsh rasp as he takes him in.

He looks the same, and yet wholly different.

The harsh lines of time cling to his face and the scowl he wears in his sleep leaves him looking wane and aged. A scar, bright pink and tight with its newness, cuts its path across the bridge of his nose, leaving the skin puckered in a painful way.

The hair that sticks to his forehead with sweat is a startling white.

But it’s him all the same. Keith can tell by the solid cut of his jaw, and the full bow of his lips, and the lone freckle that marks his skin just below his ear.

“Shiro,” he says again, the name soft and reverent as he reaches forward to brush the hair back from his brow.

Keith’s fingers barely brush his skin, but the heat radiating off of him still licks at his fingertips all the same.

Growling lowly, he takes his blade to the straps, jerking the sharp medal through the leather and letting them fall limply at Shiro’s sides.

“I’ve got you,” Keith says in reassurance, both for himself and the prone man before him as he pulls him into a seated position. A small sound, caught between a gasp and a moan cracks the quiet around them as Keith settles Shiro’s arm along his shoulders and pushes his own around his waist.

Double checking his hold, Keith drags a steady breath between his teeth and then stands, carrying all of his weight.

Carefully, he pulls him along, making his way over the bodies and taking special care to avoid the officer that lay in front of the entryway.

The night is still silent as he pushes them through the tent’s opening, and something about the harrowed stillness raises the hair on his arms. A small trickle of icy fear slowly traces the knobs of his spine as he pushes them quicker across the dirt and through the fence.

 _Something’s wrong_ , he thinks, cutting his gaze back and forth across the open earth in search of the reason for the sudden blooming burn of a stare at the center of his chest.

The shadows just outside the lights grow deeper, darker, turning more dangerous as as he pushes Shiro’s lax body onto the back of his bike.

Climbing on in front of him, Keith tugs the bandana from around his nose and pulls Shiro’s arms around his waist. With a quick movement, he ties the fabric tightly around Shiro’s wrists to keep his hold around him.

Giving the knot a sharp tug to test its hold, Keith finally settles his hands on the handlebars. Revving the engine, he almost jumps at the sudden loud snarl of his bike as it’s amplified by the stiff quiet.

Without sparing a glance back, Keith lets the bike fly across the dirt back in the direction that he came. It’s a quick trip, only made to feel long by the worry that grips his lungs in a crushing vice.

At every turn he imagines an official finally catching up with them, and at every turn he’s met with nothing more than the shadows painted across the ground by moonlight.

Cresting over the small hill that separates his part of the desert from military land, Keith finally lets his breath escape between the cage of his teeth. The hiss of it is loud, even over the sound of the engine roar as he starts to slow their speed, finally bringing the hover bike to a halt just outside the barely there shack that was home.

Unease clings to him as he leverages Shiro off of the seat, holding tight to the hands still tied around his waist. With Shiro’s weight fully supported against his back, he’s able to move a bit quicker as he gets them both to the front door.

Throwing one last look over his shoulder, Keith stares into the darkness that stands behind them, unpunctuated by headlights or movement.

The sense of foreboding feathers out through his veins before he sighs and pushes them through the door.

The air trapped by the wooden walls of the shack is cooler than that of the outdoors, but its still dry, burning Keith’s throat with every quick breath as he moves Shiro through the small living area and toward the bedroom.

It’s a small space, not necessarily meant to be a home, but it always worked for him. Having been the only thing he’d inherited from his father after his death, it had become something like a sanctuary.

With a short grunt, Keith maneuvers Shiro’s unmoving frame through the doorway into the even smaller bedroom. Shuffling slightly and inelegantly, he gets the unconscious man seated atop the worn blankets of his bed before finally untying his wrists.

Gently, and with infinite care, Keith leans Shiro back against his pillow. In the darkness of his room, he looks less gaunt, the shadows of the room masking the lines that mark his face. For just a moment, he almost looks like the man he had been before he’d been lost to the vast expanse of space.

Moving quickly across his room to the bathroom tucked in the corner, Keith wets a washcloth, pointedly ignoring his reflection in the mirror before returning to Shiro’s side.

“What happened to you?” He muses to the quiet of the room as he carefully wipes the washcloth over Shiro’s skin. Dust and dirt collects on the wet fiber as he repeats the motion across his temples and along his hairline. Deep rust stains the light washcloth where it catches dried blood from a wound hidden beneath his hair.

The soft touch pulls a sound, low and desperate from Shiro’s lips.

Keith tries to ignore the lightning that zings through his veins when it sounds a lot like his name.

“Shhhh,” he hushes, dragging the cool cloth over the bridge of Shiro’s nose thoughtfully. Losing himself to the repeated motion, minutes, or maybe hours pass before Keith finally drops the washcloth on the side table before pushing himself up. Letting his gaze linger just a moment longer on Shiro’s face, Keith exits.

Carefully shutting the bedroom door behind him, he makes his way to the shoddy table that’s pushed into the corner. Dropping himself down into the lone chair there, he reaches for the communication radio that takes up about half the table’s surface.

With a quick twist of the dial, he powers it on. Loud clicks and hums fill the small space as it comes to life, catching on the radio frequency for the Garrison.

It wasn’t always the best connection, but it’s all Keith has now as he slowly turns the knob ever so slightly until the static picks up a tinny voice.

“—gone——rogane—— gone,” Keith hears the frantic official say into the staticky waves.

“—gone—— all dead——help,” the voice continues, fading in and out and growing ever more panicked. Something in the way the official trips and stumbles over his words causes Keith pause as he cuts his gaze toward the bedroom door before leaning in closer. Turning the sound up, he tries to make out more.

“Send—— they’re dead—— help—”

The transmission cuts off with a blood curdling scream. It’s filled with anguish, and cuts deep into Keith’s bones as he pushes back from radio, quickly turning it off as he snaps his gaze back to the bedroom door.

Time clings to Keith’s skin as he stares at the worn wood, waiting long enough to make sure the sound hasn’t woken Shiro. After several minutes pass, he turns back to the radio, carefully turning it back on and lowering the volume.

This time the only sound that greets him is static.

****************************


	2. 28 Days Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of the world happened a lot quicker than anyone could have guessed, at least, as far as Keith could tell.
> 
> Starting that very same night that Shiro had crash landed, it took mere days to spread to the rest of the continent, and just a week’s time to have spread throughout the rest of the world. Blindsided by the sudden nightmare that had swept across the Earth’s population, scientists hadn’t even been able to give whatever it was a classification before it was already too late.
> 
> Some took it upon themselves to call it a virus.
> 
> Some called it biological warfare.
> 
> Others called it a reckoning.
> 
> Whatever it was, it had cleaved humanity at its knees, leaving the world’s nations stained with crimson and the stench of death.

_28 Days Later_

The end of the world happened a lot quicker than anyone could have guessed, at least, as far as Keith could tell.

Starting that very same night that Shiro had crash landed, it took mere days to spread to the rest of the continent, and just a week’s time to have spread throughout the rest of the world. Blindsided by the sudden nightmare that had swept across the Earth’s population, scientists hadn’t even been able to give whatever it was a classification before it was already too late.

Some took it upon themselves to call it a virus.

Some called it biological warfare.

Others called it a reckoning.

Whatever it was, it had cleaved humanity at its knees, leaving the world’s nations stained with crimson and the stench of death.

And that wasn’t even the worst of it.

It would have been one thing if the dead had stayed that way, but they had found all too quickly that whatever this plague was that had turned the human race into an endangered species, had a second phase.

One that reanimated the corpses that outnumbered the living, and turned them into flesh hungry monsters.

Something akin to the creatures in horror movies and graphic novels, only more ferocious.

And quicker.

Hungrier.

More frightening.

Letting a tired, growling sigh slip through the cage of his teeth, Keith rolls a tight knot from his neck with deft fingers before letting his head fall back and his tired eyes close. It’s one small moment of blessed relief before he turns his attention back to the desert laid out before him.

Today marked twenty-eight days since he’d rescued Shiro from one Hell, only to find he’d dragged him into another.

Soft footfalls crunch across the broken, cracked ground, drawing close at a timid pace as if trying to not startle. As if they ever could. Even if they weren’t the last two living humans for miles, he’d still know exactly who it was.

“Hey,” Shiro’s voice hushes from just behind him as he brushed his fingertips over Keith’s shoulder before gripping it tight in greeting. Heat crackles and licks at Keith’s skin where his palm cradles the full of his shoulder.

Humming lowly as he pushes closer to the contact, Keith turns his attention away from the rust colored land ahead of them to look up at the man beside him.

The dusky light of the setting sun touchs Shiro’s eyes with an other worldly glow, turning them from stormy grey to something more alien, as he looks down at Keith. They glow with the watercolor mix of orange and pink, almost like heated steel. Swallowing around the sudden burn that tickles at the back of his throat, Keith draws his nighttime gaze down across the raised flesh over the bridge of Shiro’s nose.

It’s a darker pink now, contrasting starkly with the tan of his skin and standing as one of the few reminders of what he’d been through.

“Hey,” Keith returns, soft and quiet as the melting light of the day. “How are you feeling?”

Shrugging, Shiro draws a comforting circle into Keith’s shoulder.

“More of the same,” he hums as he tracks one last circle before letting his hand slide away. The burn of his touch leaves a lingering, blistering ache along Keith’s skin as he lets his gaze trace the rest of Shiro’s form.

Dark, worn leather of an old jacket hugs his still gaunt frame, accentuating the width of his shoulders. Black riding gloves cover his hands, hiding the way his bones had stood out beneath his pale skin.

In the fading heat of the day, Keith can’t help but wonder if the added layers are making Shiro uncomfortable, though he guesses they wouldn’t in his current state.

Those first few days after he’d brought Shiro home had been filled with his fitful sleep and almost crazed muttering. His words were always bitten out in broken statements, some nonsensical and others marking the harrowed nature of his escape, but almost always punctuated by Shiro’s claims that he was cold.

So cold.

When he’d finally awakened, he still couldn’t seem to fight back the chill that bit deep into him and left his skin feeling frigid to the touch.

It had been then that Keith had unearthed the jacket and gloves that had been tucked away, kept safe and hidden in the chest at the foot of his bed.

He had hoped that after the aches and the pains had abated, Shiro would be freed of the unnatural chill but it still remained as a constant, stubborn specter that haunted him.

“We can stay another night if we need to,” Keith assures, keeping his gaze locked on the man beside him. Lips turning down in something a shade lighter than displeasure, Shiro shakes his head.

“We both know that we can’t,” he replies, low and quiet, as he turns his silvered stare out toward the abandoned desert. With the sun fading lower into the horizon, the usual reds and browns are painted with dusky purples and shadows. It’s so mundane and almost peaceful, if only those shadows weren’t hiding monsters.

“Shiro,” Keith hushes, doing his best to ignore the way he’s turned his name into a plea.

“They’re getting closer every day, Keith,” Shiro cuts him off, eyes still trained ahead as if searching for something. Keith watches as he sees the sharp metallic glint of his stare flick back and forth over the horizon.

“So let them, I can hold them back,” he growls as he grabs at Shiro’s arm, giving it a gentle yet insistent tug to turn the older man toward him once more. The silver sheen of his eyes softens, turning from hardened steel to liquid mercury as he sees the ferocity that has pushed Keith’s mouth into a frown.

“Keith.”

It’s said low, a warning and a prayer wrapped into one as he holds Keith’s stubborn gaze. Electricity, hot and bright, crackles between them as their silent battle wages. Once upon a time the near command might have worked, but neither of them is the same person they had been before.

Moments pass, thick and slow, before Shiro’s shoulders sink forward with the weight of his sigh.

“We’ve stuck around here longer than we should have already,” he offers lowly, almost apologetic this time. As if somehow this might be his fault.

“And we can stick around longer if we need to to make sure you’re healed,” Keith returns brusquely. It pulls a dry, humorless laugh from Shiro’s cracked lips as he shakes his head. Gently brushing his fingers over Keith’s hand where it still grips at his arm, he carefully pulls it away to grasp it between his own.

“You don’t need to keep trying to save me, Keith. I’m already here,” Shiro says softly, tracing the back of Keith’s hands with his gloved thumb. Up and down the the licking fire goes, etching deep into the back of his hand. Keith watches it as it slowly moves back and forth.

A shudder rocks down his spine as he finally looks up at him, admiring the way the fading light still clings to Shiro’s gaze.

“I’ll save you as many times as I need to,” he vows, flipping his hand in Shiro’s hold to lace their fingers together. The last rays of sunlight die as the sun sinks beneath the dirt, blanketing them both in the soft hush of night.

Shiro’s grasp tightens, solid and reassuring as he replies.

“I just don’t want to see you hurt because of me.”

It’s a weighted confession, one that lands heavily at their feet as Shiro fixes his gaze on the dirt between them. Guilt twists bitterly in his gut as he pulls gently on their intertwined hands to bring him closer.

“You won’t,” Keith breathes, the words brushing across Shiro’s lips before presses forward, chasing after them. The kiss is chaste, nothing more than a soft promise brought to life between them.

He lingers, committing the dusky moment to memory before pulling away. A smile carves itself into the corner of his lips as he looks up at Shiro.

“I’ll get our stuff together.”

Turning away from him, Keith heads back towards the shack. As he pushes his way through the door, he misses the way Shiro casts a long, lingering look out over the darkness.

The pinprick of headlights dot the inky black of the desert in the distance, bright and sharp for just a moment too long before suddenly going out.

****************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies this isn’t a longer chapter. I have to constantly remind myself that there isn’t anything wrong with bridge chapters even if they do drive me a bit crazy XD Hopefully there’s enough setup here to make it worth it. That being said, I may post another chapter next week instead of in two weeks to make up for said shortness.


	3. Don't Open, Dead Inside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following his eye line, Keith tracks the length of dirty tile to the far side of the dining area. Dim moonlight cuts through the shadows, illuminating a stumbling figure as it pushes against the corner of a table, eliciting another soft moan of its legs against the ground.
> 
> The zombie’s hair is thin and brittle, clinging sadly to its scalp in patchy clumps and exposing the grey of death that has turned its skin a pallid color. Sections of muscle and bone peak out through the decaying, shedding flesh, no longer a healthy red but a sick, deathly black.
> 
> Keith’s gaze continues down over its body towards the creature’s hands where they sway at its waist curled into claws, and from them, loose skin hangs like limp cloth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternatively titled, Don’t Dead Open Inside.

Darkness, thick and suffocating, clings to every line of the once thriving city, coloring it a shade of death and decay that made Keith’s skin crawl.

After days of trekking through the desert, they’d come across the silent city, nothing but garbage and rotting gore littering the streets. It left all the tell tale signs of a horde that had moved through, scattering the dead in its wake.

Snaking between the buildings and wrapping them with a forceful hold, the eerie quiet catches in his throat, choking Keith as he continues to walk forward through the emptied streets.

Being trapped in the urban expanse of concrete and steel was far from an ideal. Putting space between themselves and anything that had once resembled civilization had been the only thing to lessen their encounters with those things, but they’d had to pack light, and rations were already low.

Casting a cursory glance over his shoulder, Keith catches Shiro’s attention long enough to signal him forward. Waiting for his nod of confirmation, Keith turns back to face ahead, taking a steadying breath before moving once more at a careful pace.

The darkened husks of emptied, destroyed storefronts mark the buildings as they pass, pushing across the cracked concrete with a singleminded focus until they come across what was once a restaurant. Shattered glass sparkles across the dark ground, remnants of the large window that looked out over the street.

Eyeing the heavy coat of shadows that seep into the restaurant, Keith’s nerves set alight, leaving an ever present thrum of adrenaline that he can feel in his teeth. A sharp, electric tingle works through his limbs with the unused rush as he quietly steps over debris.

Lifting a leg over the window’s ledge, he carefully sets one foot into the abandoned diner. Shiro’s presence is a steady warmth at his back as he takes in the scatter of toppled chairs and tables. Keith can almost see how the occupants must have fled, can almost hear the screams, as the undead had crashed through the windows. Stinking of rot and covered in blood, he can almost imagine the palpable sense of dread as they’d begun to tear the flesh from their victims’ bones.

Quickly shaking the image from his mind, Keith pushes his other leg over, ignoring the sharp sting at his thigh as his leg catches on some of the leftover glass jutting out from the window pane.

It’s something to take care of later, he thinks, as he feels the warmth of blood seep slowly into the fabric of his jeans. Sidestepping more broken glass, Keith throws a quick look over his shoulder to make sure Shiro makes it over the window’s ledge before turning his attention back to the space ahead of him.

The gaping maw of an entryway stands proud ahead of them, its shape giving way to an indescribable black. A thrill rolls through his body, spreading a cascade of goosebumps along his skin as he silently makes his way towards what he can only assume is the kitchen.

Pulling his dagger free from its sheath at his hip, Keith holds it at the ready as he reaches the entrance, pausing long enough to listen for any noise. Met by the near unbearable sound of silence, Keith pushes himself through the kitchen door.

Several moments pass as he lets his eyes adjust to the lack of light, the pounding of his heart in his chest a steady drumbeat that battles the thick silence. Making a move to head further into the kitchen, Keith jumps slightly as he feels a soft tap on his shoulder.

Turning to look back at Shiro, the taller man fixes him with a meaningful stare as he gestures down to Keith’s leg. Not bothering to turn his attention to the cut, Keith rolls his eyes before mouthing “don’t worry about it.”

It earns him a scoff as Shiro drops down to his knees before him, looking up in silent warning as he pulls a bandana from his jacket pocket. Keeping his eyes trained on Keith’s, he slowly rolls it into a thick strip of fabric before wrapping it around his thigh over the cut. Ever so gently, he ties it, catching Keith’s slight grimace as the pressure makes the wound sear once more.

Finally flicking his gaze down to his work, Shiro leans in tortuously slow and brushes his lips over the fabric. The gesture makes Keith’s heart squeeze as a sudden burst of flames ignites his blood.

Almost as if he knows what he’s done, Shiro cuts his silver stare up toward him with a wicked, scythe of a smile. It buries itself deep in Keith’s chest, punching the very breath from his lungs.

Frozen there, in the dark with Shiro’s hands at his thigh, he swallows down the sudden flaring desire.

“Asshole,” he hisses lowly without much bite as he pushes his head gently away.

Shiro’s low, rumbling laugh is a light in the darkness as Keith turns away to begin his search for supplies.

A thick layer of grime and dust blankets the steel surfaces of the kitchen’s appliances, rendering them even more dull in the unlit room as Keith slowly makes his way through the space. Discarded utensils lay strewn across the ground, and litter the counters, painting a havoc ridden portrait of what had happened here.

Something catches the corner of Keith’s boot suddenly, shattering the quiet with the sharp grating scratch of metal against tile. The unnatural shriek of it freezes his muscles, locking him into place as his breath stalls in his throat.

Stuck still under the crush of the awful silence left in its wake, Keith waits.

For something.

For anything.

Any sign that the sudden sound may have given their position away.

Waiting until the aching burn in his lungs is unbearable, Keith finally lets his breath out, low and slow, before looking toward where Shiro still stands at the doorway. Watching the careful way he shakes his head in silent answer, Keith turns back to his task, making quick work of looting the kitchen.

Rucksack slightly heavier with an unopened pack of beans, a two half filled containers of pasta, and a baguette that hadn’t molded too badly, Keith quickly pushes back through the chaos of the ruined kitchen to return to Shiro.

Offering the taller man a small, victorious smile and a quick jerk of his head, it’s then that he hears the soft scrape of wood against linoleum. Thrill going through him and forcing his body rigid, Keith watches as a divot digs itself deep between Shiro’s brows as his eyes go steely. The barely there reach of moonlight sparks as he cuts his attention to the main area of the restaurant.

Following his eye line, Keith tracks the length of dirty tile to the far side of the dining area. Dim moonlight cuts through the shadows, illuminating a stumbling figure as it pushes against the corner of a table, eliciting another soft moan of its legs against the ground.

The zombie’s hair is thin and brittle, clinging sadly to its scalp in patchy clumps and exposing the grey of death that has turned its skin a pallid color. Sections of muscle and bone peak out through the decaying, shedding flesh, no longer a healthy red but a sick, deathly black.

Keith’s gaze continues down over its body towards the creature’s hands where they sway at its waist curled into claws, and from them, loose skin hangs like limp cloth.

The smell hits him next, burning the back of his throat with the acrid scent of rot. Swallowing down the tang of bile that tickles the back of his tongue, Keith continues to watch the way the zombie fumbles forward aimlessly.

It doesn’t seem that it has quite caught onto their existence in the space yet, most likely only pulled toward the restaurant by the sound of the utensil he’d kicked earlier.

Mentally chiding himself for the mistake, Keith watches as the undead finally pushes past the table, freed from the minor barrier as it continues its blind shuffle toward the small hall opposite of where they stand.

Looking quickly over to Shiro, he raises a finger to his lips before pointing it over to the door straight ahead of them in signal. There’s a weighted pause, as Shiro keeps his gaze locked toward the zombie on the other side of the room before he finally tears it away to nod.

Moving swiftly and quietly through, they keep their attention toward the groaning sound of the undead until they’ve pushed past the broken door and out into the cool night.

Sharp, dry air pushes against them, almost as if ushering them to move quicker to their bike and its hidden position at the entrance of the city. Stinging worry creeps itself along the collar of Keith’s jacket, tickling his nape as he shifts his gaze back and forth along the street.

Searching the inky tendrils of night that stretch the moonlit shadows across the dark concrete, Keith lets his hold on his dagger tighten as he presses forward.

It isn’t until they’re a couple hundred feet from the restaurant that he lets his lungs expand around the first real breath he’s taken since stepping into the building. It’s a shaky thing as it slips between his teeth.

Halting his forward motion, he turns to face Shiro, catching the way a small smile, tender and sweet, has turned his lips up in quiet success.

The moment of it lasts for the single, small eternity of a second before it all comes crashing down.

A scraping, guttural sound caught between a shriek of blood curdling rage and a moan of pain cuts through the night. It’s a call, one signaling an oncoming death and it makes his veins go cold with dread.

The scream raises high into the sky again, louder, already closer and now Keith hears the stamping sound of running. Flipping quickly toward the sound, knife already raised before him, he sees the quick moving bodies of the undead as they clumsily charge forward.

“Fuck,” Keith breathes, tracking the couple of blocks that stand between them and the hoard. At the rate they’re moving, he knows there’s no way to outrun them.

They’d have to fight.

Reading the situation, Shiro moves to his side, pulling the long hunting knife at his thigh from its sheath. Knuckles going white with his grip, he’s silent as he studies the approaching hoard and its loose formation. 

Keith watches as one of the undead toward the front lets its jaws crack impossibly wide around the piercing sound of its scream.

“Take the two coming up on the left, and I’ll take the two right here front and center,” Shiro says, tone strong and authoritative as he keeps focus on the oncoming stampede. Flicking his gaze toward him, Keith takes in the strong set of his jaw and the sureness of Shiro’s stance. The command of his presence is almost intoxicating, and Keith can’t help but bite down on the edge of his knifed grin as he nods before taking off.

With his boots pounding loudly against the pavement, he catches the attention of the moving zombies as they pull even further ahead of their group. The smell reaches him before the undead do, turning his stomach and almost forcing a painful retch from his mouth.

It’s a stronger stink than the one in the restaurant, only proving that these ones have been dead for far longer.

Time seems to peter out and stall, as they converge on him, both running toward him from opposing sides. He sees the attack with a bright clarity, waiting until the last possible second before spinning over his shoulder, moving out of the way just in time to force them into each other with the full brunt of their movement.

There’s a snarl and the vicious snap of teeth as one tears a piece of flesh from the other’s cheek, leaving coagulated blood smeared across their decaying faces.

Taking advantage of the moment, Keith moves lithely behind the pair, plunging his knife into the back of the closest zombie’s head. The bone crunches as the metal breaks through, releasing black viscous fluid around the dagger and the concentrated stench of rot from inside the zombie’s body.

Gritting his teeth against the burning bile that fills his mouth, Keith pulls his knife free as the undead’s companion turns on him, mouth gaping wide around a dry roar. Lunging forward, the zombie’s teeth click together loudly as they just barely miss his wrist.

The zombie screeches as it tumbles forward, losing its balance before Keith snakes an arm quickly around its middle. Stumbling ever so slightly with the sudden shift in weight, he pushes the dagger deep into the side of its neck until it meets the hard resistance of its spine.

Growling lowly, Keith twists the knife, separating its spine from its skull.

As if turning off a switch, the undead goes limp in his arms.

“Keith!” Shiro calls out, panic turning his name sharp on his tongue. It pulls his attention behind him just in time to see one of the creatures bound toward him, breaking free of the group with its teeth bared.

Without the time to move out of the way thanks to the limp body still in his arms, Keith braces himself for an impact that doesn’t come as a gunshot shatters the air.

A cool wetness hits his face as blood and viscera spatters dark across his skin.

Then it falls, crumpling at his feet with a dull thud.

“What the fuck?” Keith whispers, pulling his dagger free and dropping the carcass in his arms beside the one before him.

Quickly spinning around another zombie, he blindly attacks, sinking his knife into unseen flesh as he sweeps his gaze back and forth across the street in search of the the source of the gunshot.

Another rings out, clear and deafening as it cuts down another close by zombie.

Then another.

And another.

They continue until bodies litter the street, and the dark, congealed blood turns the dark pavement a darker, sinful shade.

Keith finds Shiro quickly, their breathing mirrored as the sound of their heaving is the only thing left in the once again silence of the night.

A steady pulse of adrenaline marks the heavy beat of his heart as Keith keeps his dagger at the ready. Dragging his gaze up towards the tops of the buildings, he searches the dark windows and vacant roofs for any sign of life.

“Keith,” Shiro says under his breath, snatching his attention back to the ground. Following his gaze toward the alley just diagonal from where they stand, he sees a figure moving forward from the shadows.

Military gear hugs the stranger’s shape, adding bulk to a skinny frame. Dark cloth covers half of their face, leaving nothing but bright blue eyes and a mop of messy brown hair exposed. A rifle, long and deadly, hangs idly across the stranger’s chest, as they continues to move toward them with their hands up.

“No need to thank us, buddy,” the figure— a man— says. The voice is gratingly familiar as Keith tightens his grasp on his knife. Keeping his gaze on him, he feels like the man’s name is on the tip of his tongue.

“Who—” Keith starts, too preoccupied to note the sudden presence behind him. Sharp pain explodes at the back of his head, spotting his vision with flashes of light before everything fades away to black.

****************************


	4. Good, Bad, I’m the Guy With the Gun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A groan, loud and biting pushes from deep within Keith’s throat as he finally recognizes the man.
> 
> Lance McClain. Keith had never truly paid the younger cadet much mind when he was in the Garrison, but that had never seemed to change the competition between them that Lance had crafted in his own head.
> 
> While Keith had had his eyes set ahead to where Shiro had been, Lance had had his eyes set on him.
> 
> Leaning forward in his chair, Lance pushes his forearms into his thighs as he rolls the rifle between his palms, gaze not once leaving Keith.
> 
> The light from the windowsill traces Lance’s face with bright lines. His thin face looks thinner, his boyish looks lost to the test of time and the apocalypse, leaving his cheekbones sharp and his blue eyes marred by dark bags.
> 
> Even still, he looks smug enough for Keith to want to punch him in the face.
> 
> For old time’s sake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Fun fact- This chapter has one of my fave chapter titles in this fic lol

The world spins violently, making Keith’s stomach pitch fiercely as his eyes shoot open. The only light is from a weak lamp clipped to a high window sill, leaving most of the room still shadowed. Sitting up slowly and swallowing down the sudden urge to upend the few contents in his stomach, he notes the bare walls and dingy tile of the floor, and the torn, ratty sleeping bag serving as a makeshift bed beneath him.

Shifting to get a better look at his surroundings, Keith feels the tight bite of rope at the flesh of his wrists, the sudden burn of it pulling his consciousness back to his present and the circumstance that had landed him here.

“Shiro,” Keith gasps, turning fully in search of the darkened corners. Eyes scanning across the room, his gaze stops on the thin frame of the man from the street. Sitting atop a plain, metallic chair, he keeps his eyes settled on Keith as his mouth twists into a smug grin.

A groan, loud and biting pushes from deep within Keith’s throat as he finally recognizes the man.

Lance McClain. Keith had never truly paid the younger cadet much mind when he was in the Garrison, but that had never seemed to change the competition between them that Lance had crafted in his own head.

While Keith had had his eyes set ahead to where Shiro had been, Lance had had his eyes set on him.

Leaning forward in his chair, Lance pushes his forearms into his thighs as he rolls the rifle between his palms, gaze not once leaving Keith.

The light from the windowsill traces Lance’s face with bright lines. His thin face looks thinner, his boyish looks lost to the test of time and the apocalypse, leaving his cheekbones sharp and his blue eyes marred by dark bags.

Even still, he looks smug enough for Keith to want to punch him in the face.

For old time’s sake.

“Hey, buddy,” Lance says, vestiges of his smarmy tone still clinging stubbornly to his voice as he speaks. Its cadence makes the dull, aching throb at the back of his head pulsate.

“Where’s Shiro?” Keith all but snarls, hands folding into fists as he flexes against the tight binding of the rope. It doesn’t budge, instead biting further into his skin in a way that he’s sure will leave the skin at his wrists torn and raw.

Not that that truly matters, Keith thinks as he shifts slightly, feeling the way his legs move freely.

It was their second mistake.

Their first having been knocking him out.

“No hello? No, wow Lance, I missed you, glad to see you didn’t become zombie chow?” Lance muses, leaning back and slapping a hand over his heart with a loud gasp of faux hurt. “That cuts me deep.”

Ignoring his quips, Keith repositions his legs carefully, moving as if he was just trying to get a bit more comfortable. The change leaves him bracing his weight on one foot with his thigh flush against his chest, with the other leg folded beneath him.

“At least if you were zombie food, you wouldn’t be giving me such a headache,” he bites out, glaring at his old acquaintance as his muscles tense.

“That would be courtesy of Hunk, not me,” Lance shrugs, leaning forward once more as he replaces his hand on his rifle. There’s a sparkle buried deep in his eyes as his hands tighten on the muzzle. It’s a challenge, silent and standing between them, filling the distance with a bright burning tension.

One breath became two, and starts to become a third when Keith launches himself forward, hands held awkwardly in front of him where they’re tied.

A look of shock dances across Lance’s features as Keith swats the rifle out from his grip before twisting to kick at his side, forcing him and his chair sideways. The grating clatter of metal against tile screams through the air as Keith falls on top of him, pushing the flush of his forearm into his throat as he leans in close.

“I won’t ask again. Where’s Shiro?” Keith growls, sneer nothing but teeth.

“Chill, man,” Lance chokes out as he struggles beneath him. He gets a hand fisted in the material of Keith’s shirt and another on his side when there’s a loud knock on the door, effectively freezing them both as the pair turn their gazes toward the offending sound.

“Hey, you good in there?” Another familiar voice calls through the wood, “Allura wanted to see us like, 10 minutes ago.”

Hunk, Keith’s brain supplies, as he remembers the timid engineering student who had seemed attached to Lance’s hip. The moment of pause gives Lance just enough to steady his hold and push Keith off of him. As he falls to the side, Lance quickly rolls in the opposite direction before coming back to a crouch, all the while coughing and rubbing at his throat.

“Yeah, buddy, all good here. Just go ahead without us, we’ll be there in a minute,” he calls out to his companion on the other side of the door as he glares at Keith.

Both men hold stock still as they wait, both relaxing slightly at the small sound of affirmation that makes its way into the room.

“If you’d just given me a minute, you’d know that I was going to take you to see him. Allura wants to see you both,” Lance hisses after hearing the sound of Hunk’s footsteps draw away from the door.

“Who the hell is Allura?” Keith spits, tone untrusting as he pushes himself up onto his feet. Taking several steps away from the brunette, he braces himself with the wall at his back, watchful gaze stuck on Lance.

“The person who is going to get us all out of this apocalyptic bullshit alive,” he remarks with a shrug, as if the sheer impossibility of the statement was simple fact. Giving Keith another hard look, he leans down to pick up his discarded rifle, brushing it off and cooing quietly to it before he uses it to gesture toward the door.

“We’re going to leave, but if you make a run for it, I can’t guarantee you won’t be shot down before you get to the exit.”

It lacks threat, said as nothing but yet another fact. Pausing to allow Keith the chance to say something, Lance shrugs at his silent obstinance.

“Not sure you’ll be much use to Shiro dead.”

It pushes a low grumble of acquiescence between his teeth as he watches Lance move toward the door. Pushing away from the wall, he stretches quickly to loosen his achey joints. Standing behind Lance, he watches over his shoulder as he opens the door.

Scraping along the flooring, the wood opens up into an empty hallway. It’s just barely cleaner than the room, though there’s grime that still clings to the corners where the floor meets the wall and a staleness that hangs in the air. Construction lights line the hallway every few feet, leaving stretches of darkness between the circles of illumination that they cast, leaving the space filled with a sort of eeriness that Keith couldn’t quite place.

There was no telling just how long the building had been abandoned, even before the end of the world.

“This way,” Lance says, motioning for Keith to follow as he turns to the left, not bothering to look back to make sure he follows. Not that he supposes he has much of a choice.

It’s a thought that sends a wave of annoyance pulsing through him in time with the aching throb at the back of his head.

Passing through the hall in tense silence, Keith lets his gaze wander over his surroundings, taking in the boarded windows and stretch of doorways covered with mismatched coverings and torn pieces of fabric.

As they move along, he hears the quiet mutterings of people inside.

It takes several minutes before Lance finally stops at the end of the hallway where two heavy metallic doors stand. Settling his hands over the rusting handles, Keith watches as he takes a breath. The depth of it raises his shoulders before they slow come back down around his exhale.

“I know we never quite got along, but give Allura a chance,” Lance says lowly, throwing a quick look back to him before pushing the doors wide.

Over his shoulder, Keith can see the long stretch of a room with several metal tables. Stepping through the threshold, he makes quick work of counting the tables, and taking in their stock.

Three along the back wall are littered with guns and ammunition. Two, one at the very center and one pushed to the front, support out of date monitors and even older computer towers. The final table that stands alone at the side of the room boasts a coffee machine and a random assortment of snacks.

Atop the table set at the center of the room, the monitors stand like a curved barrier around its occupant. It obscures all but the person’s mess of tawny hair above the top of the smallest monitor.

Beside the hidden stranger, a woman stands tall and lean, with darkly tanned skin, white hair twisted atop her head, and striking eyes.

She looks strong, her obvious authority rolling off of her, even as she offers the person to her side a small, secretive smile.

Even without introduction, Keith knows exactly who she must be.

 _Allura_.

Her gaze finds him then, cutting into his chest, almost as if she could hear his very thoughts.

“Good, you’re finally here,” she says, voice strict and accented as she gestures for Lance to close the door. With a quick nod and a small sound in his throat, he shuts the doors, revealing two figures on the other side.

A rush of relief rolls through Keith as he sees that one of the figures is Shiro.

His silvered gaze finds him easily as Shiro offers him a small, reassuring smile. Offering a small nod in return, Keith traces his form quickly, noting how he stands tall, hands free and untied where they hang at his sides.

With another quick dip of his chin, Keith moves his attention toward the man beside him.

Hunk looks the same as he had at the Garrison, only harder, as if he was the visage of the boy he had once known but carved of hardened stone. It doesn’t diminish the slight smile that seems to still tug at the corner of his lips, however.

Silence rolls out through the room as Allura steps around the desk, stopping at the end closest to them. Settling her hip against the corner, she crosses her arms and makes a show of analyzing them both slowly.

Quick clicks punch through the deafening quiet as the person behind the monitors continues to type away.

“I’ve heard so much about you both,” Allura finally says, drawing her attention back up to capture Keith’s stare.

“Keith Kogane, rising star of the Galaxy Garrison. Relieved of your position after an assault on a superior officer. Specializations in hand-to-hand combat and flight,” she states, tone bored, as if she reading was his successes and failures off of a memorized checklist.

Aside from the woman herself, he’s certain no one there needed a reminder about his history, half of them having been there for a front seat view of it all. He feels his lips twitch into a sneer as she turns her attention away from him and toward Shiro.

“And Takashi Shirogane, the Garrison’s brightest. Youngest pilot to land the lead pilot position for a major space exploration. Originally pronounced dead after the failure of the mission.”

The way the words fall from her tongue sounds accusatory, even as she continues to stand there at perfect ease with her arms folded across her front and her eyes bright.

“Seems you know enough about us,” Shiro bites out, the snap of his voice turns his word brittle as he tenses under Allura’s scrutiny. “Anything we should know about you?”

There’s a hollow pause as the edges of Allura’s mouth turn upward into a smile. Sharp and bright, its equal parts welcoming as it is dangerous.

“I’m Allura,” she offers before opening her arms wide to gesture all around them, “and this is New Altea.”

Taking a brief moment to look between them both, she continues.

“It isn’t much, but I assure you, it is only a temporary solution.”

“New Altea?” Keith asks, pushing the foreign name through the wall of his indignation as he flexes against the rope. It earns him her attention once more as her gaze cuts back to him, the startling blue of her eyes catching the light like a blade.

“Our colony. When the city was destroyed, I tried to gather as many survivors as I could. Those here now may be the last of us,” Allura says low and matter-of-fact in the very same way as a doctor giving a terminal prognosis. The statement might have cut deeper if he wasn’t already armored by his own pragmatism.

Keith had given up on the rest of humanity the very same night Shiro had fallen from the sky.

“Why were you looking for us?” Shiro asks, cutting through the silent thread of electricity that had built between Keith and Allura. Both turning toward him, Keith doesn’t miss the way her moth turns into a wider smile.

“You knew,” is all she says, admiration apparent in the lightness of her tone. Shiro misses Keith’s questioning look as he keeps his stare resolute and forward on the woman before them.

“Your men weren’t always subtle,” Shiro shrugs, earning a small tinkling laugh.

“No,” Allura replies, voice filled with mirth as her gaze flicks quickly to the man at Keith’s shoulder. “That does seem to be a bit of a problem for them.”

“We’re still here, ‘llura,” Lance mumbles under his breath, shifting on his feet.

“So what do you want from us?” Shiro pushes, the question lighting Keith’s nerves as he watches the exchange between the two. Two behemoth forces coming together in battle, he isn’t sure any of them will make it out alive before Allura finally looks away. Moving away from the desk, Allura slowly walks toward the computer set at the very front of the room.

“I worked for the government, you know,” she starts, not looking back at them as she taps on the space bar, the monitor attached to it flickering to life. “I was never a part of the Garrison, but it was my duty to monitor them. A handler, of sorts. There was nothing they did that I did not know of.”

Fingers flying across the keyboard, file after file pulls up onto the screen.

“At least, that’s how it was supposed to be.”

From where he stands, Keith watches the brief flash of images across the screen. Some are too blurry to make out, some obvious shots of the open desert, others what looked to be microscopic shots of cellular structures.

One, in particular seems to freeze on the screen longer than others, leaving Keith staring into the depths of the very same photo of Shiro that the media had pasted alongside the announcement of the mission’s failure.

“I had begun noticing some strange notations in their ledgers. Ones that made sense when just fed through the system, but a little less so when combed through by human eyes.”

The image is quickly covered by another, and then another, and then another, each coming quicker than the last as Keith schools his breathing, eyes never leaving the screen.

“After some digging, I noticed that no matter how I followed those breadcrumbs, I always came back to you,” at this, she turns over her shoulder to fix her gaze on Shiro once more.

A hush of a sound, low and confused is his only reply as Keith recognizes the scene frozen on the monitor. A science lab, white and sterile, stands as a moment in time, its occupants stuck in varying degrees of movement around a table where a body lay.

Allura’s eyes never leave Shiro as she presses the space bar once more, bringing the scene to life.

Keith watches as the scientists start to shuffle around Shiro’s unmoving body, their hazmat suited forms marking sheets of paper and tapping at tablets. Holding his breath, he lets his lungs burn as he watches one of the forms stop mid step, muscles seemingly locking. It’s a harrowing moment, made more so with the silence of the video, as the scientist’s body twists sharply and unnaturally before crumpling to the ground.

Several seconds pass before any of the other figures seem to notice, the first making quick movement to get across the room, only to freeze and crumple in the exact same manner.

One by one, he watches them fall until none are left standing, their bodies littering the ground.

After several more seconds, another figure enters at the bottom of the frame, coming to a halt just beneath the camera and freezing as Allura taps the space bar once more.

A shudder tickles down the knobs of his spine as he looks at the fuzzy version of himself standing stuck in that moment of time when he had happened on the scene.

Electricity crackles and pops through the room as Allura straightens, rolling her shoulders back and adopting an air of authority once more as she turns back toward them. Her gaze is harder this time, chips of frozen cerulean.

“So, tell me Shiro,” she says, steely toned, “why didn’t you die in that tent?”

Burning unease rockets through Keith, his muscles coiling, ready for a fight.

“What are you trying to accuse him of?” He spits out, pushing himself quickly between Shiro and Allura to covet her stare. Holding it, he feels the quick burn of her apprehension on his skin as he pulls against the rope on his wrists, a deeper burning ache biting deeper in his skin with his futile motions.

A quick coughing sound breaks the moment, shattering it like glass as the person behind the monitors finally stands.

Nothing but wild, tawny hair, and large wired rimmed glasses, Keith feels his breath stall in his throat.

“Matt?” He hears himself whisper, trying to force his gaze away to look at Shiro. Almost as soon as the name drops from his mouth, his vision shifts and his mind catches onto the minute details that separate the person before them from his lost friend.

“Katie,” Shiro hushes, as she pushes her glasses further up her nose with a small smile.

“Hey Shiro,” she whispers, offering him a barely there smile before turning her gaze on Allura. Sharing a silent moment, Allura gives her a quick nod.

“You are both welcome to stay,” she says, almost begrudgingly to Keith before her attention moves behind him, landing on Shiro.

“But on the condition that you’ll let Pidge do some tests.”

The second passes like an eternity as the occupants of the room all seem to suck in a bated breath.

Finally, Shiro answers.

“Alright.”

***************************


	5. You’ve Got Red on You (An Interlude)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This is your captain speaking,” a voice says over the intercom, filled with confidence and mirth. It causes Shiro to roll his eyes, quickening his pace down the short hall between the living space and the stairs up towards the cockpit.
> 
> “Matt,” Shiro warns as he takes the steps two at a time, his frame cresting over the top of the stairs in time to see the junior science officer lean forward toward the mic to speak again. Shoulders going tight at the sound of his name, he spins in the seat, hands up in surrender and a wide smile stretched across his lips.
> 
> “Oh, hey man, fancy seeing you here,” he says cheerily. “You hear that random announcement on the com? Weird right? Wonder who would ever do such a thing.”
> 
> Even as Shiro shakes his head, he can’t help the way his own mouth stretches around a toothy grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Now I just wanna watch Shaun of the Dead lol

“This is your captain speaking,” a voice says over the intercom, filled with confidence and mirth. It causes Shiro to roll his eyes, quickening his pace down the short hall between the living space and the stairs up towards the cockpit.

“Matt,” Shiro warns as he takes the steps two at a time, his frame cresting over the top of the stairs in time to see the junior science officer lean forward toward the mic to speak again. Shoulders going tight at the sound of his name, he spins in the seat, hands up in surrender and a wide smile stretched across his lips.

“Oh, hey man, fancy seeing you here,” he says cheerily. “You hear that random announcement on the com? Weird right? Wonder who would ever do such a thing.”

Even as Shiro shakes his head, he can’t help the way his own mouth stretches around a toothy grin.

“How many times do me and Commander Holt have to tell you to not mess with anything in the cockpit?” He says, painting his tone an authoritative color as he drops himself into the seat beside Matt. Gaze lingering on his friend’s smile, a sharp pang of melancholy pinches at the center of his chest.

It’s a longing sort of pain, almost as if he misses him, even though he’s right there in front of him.

A bright sound of shock drops from the ‘o’ shape of Matt’s mouth as he clutches at the center of his chest.

“Dost mine ears deceive me? Are you accusing me of messing around?” Matt huffs, barely able to bite back the laugh that hangs at the end of his words. Eyebrow twitching upward in silent answer, Shiro watches as Matt tilts his head back and laughs in earnest.

“Alright, alright, it was me, officer,” he says around his boisterous mirth, holding his wrists together and offering them out to Shiro, “take me to the brig.”

Rolling his eyes heavenward, he pushes Matt’s hands away.

“Just don’t mess with any of the comm settings,” Shiro says lowly, turning toward the screen before him and quickly tapping his way into the encrypted system. The calm grey of the screen gives way to a blue before an error flashes briefly across the screen. Angry and red, it blinks quickly before disappearing, replaced instead by the 3D scans of the areas listed for exploration that day.

“Did you see that?” Shiro breathes, leaning himself closer to the screen as if it might bring the warning back to life.

“Absolved of my crimes by the golden boy,” Matt prattles on cheerfully, ignoring Shiro’s question as he leans an elbow on the metallic surface before him. Pressing his cheek into his open palm, gaze still set on Shiro.

“Very funny,” he replies drily, eyes leaving the screen long enough to see the way Matt is watching him closely. Even with his cheery tone, his mouth is downturned into a deep frown. It’s almost unnatural, the way it juxtaposes the bright nature of his voice. His question about the error message dries on his tongue as a chill dances along his spine.

“What?” Shiro hears himself ask instead, attention frozen on the brunette as he watches his brows pull together in confusion.

After a moment’s hesitation, he slowly shakes his head.

“I just miss you, man,” Matt says lowly, gaze never leaving him. Sharp shards slide through his veins, filling him with stinging unease as red flashes at the corner of his eye. Turning back toward the screen, he’s met by the tepid blue of the maps.

“What?” Shiro asks again, this time under his breath.

“Matt, how many times do I have to tell you to not touch the comms,” a voice, calm and fond, says behind them as they’re joined by their third colleague. Spinning his chair to face the entrance, Shiro’s gaze finds the older man’s frame as he breaches the threshold of the cockpit.

Commander Samuel Holt.

While also his commanding officer, Sam was so much more than that. He had been there when Shiro had entered the Garrison with stars in his eyes and head higher than the clouds.

Sam had been there for him a few years later when he’d gotten the call that his grandfather had passed, helping keep him together when he was hellbent on falling apart.

The older man had even been there for him when the Garrison had threatened to pull the plug on any involvement Shiro might have in any further expeditions because of his disease.

Sam Holt was more than just a military official, a mentor, or even a friend. He had been a light at the end of a long stretch of dark tunnel, one that had helped Shiro keep his head up even in the toughest of times.

Another sharp pang seizes his lungs as Sam’s gaze flicks to him quickly as he offers him a small smile and tilt of his chin.

“But dad,” Matt starts, exaggerated petulance laced between his words before he’s cut off.

“It’s commander during work hours, kiddo,” Sam says, earning a loud moan as his son pushes himself higher in his seat and gives a weak salute.

“Yes, sir,” he bites out with a snarking smile.

It’s so blasé, and mundane, a singular moment in a lifetime of father-son moments that Shiro has grown oh so familiar with over the years of family dinner with the Holts. Yet it still pierces between his ribs, pointed directly at the meat of his heart as it slides cleanly through.

“How are we looking this morning, Shiro?” Sam asks, leaving his son’s statement hanging in the air as he drops down into the seat on the other side of Shiro. Slowly swiveling his chair to face him, Shiro notes the reflection of the screen in his glasses.

“We’re looking good, sir,” Shiro starts, words drying up on his tongue as the reflection turns a bloody red, painting Sam’s eyes black. His own eyes widening at the sight, Shiro whips his head to the screen, only to see the 3D map still standing proud and untouched before him.

“Shiro?” Sam’s voice is a worried hush as he speaks his name, turning it into a question.

“I think the system may be on the fritz, sir,” Shiro answers slowly, eyes searching the different lines of the map for any form of answer before turning his attention back to Sam. “There’s an error message that keeps popping up, but it disappears almost as soon as it shows up.”

Something dark twists across Sam’s, marring his usually kind features with a look of flashing anger that makes Shiro’s blood go cold. It only lasts for a second, the shadow that darkens his face tempering into cool amusement almost as quickly as it came.

Chuckling low, he just shakes his head and turns his attention away.

“Sounds like someone hasn’t been getting much sleep,” Sam says, fingers flying across the keyboard before him to log himself into the system.

“No, sir, I don’t think that’s it, I think—”

“Matt, have you heard from your sister recently?” Sam asks ignoring Shiro as he speaks over him toward his son.

It’s a dismissal if he’s ever heard one.

A thick layer of foreboding tickles at the back of his throat as he tries to keep his focus on the screen before him.

“Since she last reported in about Bae Bae being an unholy terror?” Matt answers him, leaning back in his chair and splaying his long legs in front of him before dropping his head back to stare up at the ceiling.

The lights above them flicker then, bathing the cockpit in darkness for the length of a breath.

“Did you guys see that?” Shiro asks, sitting straighter in his seat and looking around the room. He feels the pulse of his heart amplified through him, and tastes the metallic tang of panic.

Sam laughs lowly.

“That damned dog,” he says fondly, fingers still clicking loudly at the keyboard as if Shiro hadn’t spoken at all.

The lights flicker again, the darkness stretching a brief moment longer before coming back to life.

“Matt?” Shiro questions, turning toward his friend as his heart thuds painfully in his throat. Sweat coats his palms, leaving them slick as his hands curl into fists in a vain attempt to ground himself.

“Mom and Katie say they love you,” Matt replies, tone bored as he prattles off the contents of his sister’s last transmission.

Bloody red flashes, large and all encompassing, on every screen before them, painting the cockpit a sick shade as Shiro feels his pulse stall before picking up in triple time. Ever so slowly, he turns his attention to the one in front of him.

The error message blinks once, twice, a third time. Each time to the same beat of his heart, urging it quicker and quicker as the message stays on the screen.

“What?” He hears himself say, his single word lost to the stretch of silence around him. It lays heavy and thick over him, pressing down into his skin and leaving him petrified in his seat.

“They say they love you too, Shiro,” Matt finally says, his voice twisting and snarling in a way that makes him shudder. Slowly, Shiro turns to face him just in time to see his friend’s head snap up to stare at him.

His eyes are dull, the honey color clouded by something altogether inhuman as he stares right through him.

Jolting upright, Shiro slams his hands down on the metal before him as he pushes himself out of his chair.

“What the fuck is going on?” He yells, snapping his attention back and forth between the Holts that flank his sides.

A silence freezes the cockpit as even the low hum of the air system fades into nothingness. Twin stares bore deep into Shiro’s core as he manages one last look between the two men before the lights cut, leaving him in darkness.

A light feeling fills his stomach, leaving him feeling weightless in the heavy black. Lost to the helpless feeling of floating, he struggles to move and feel for anything that might help ground him, but he never seems to reach anything. He’s lost to the unending depths of dark space, and his breath rushes from him in sharp gasps that still don’t manage to reach his ears.

Panic, bright like lightning, chokes him as he reaches, reaches, reaches for something. Anything.

 _Please_ , he thinks, as his lungs burn.

 _Please_.

The lights come back to life, leaving his sight a bright white.

“What—” Shiro starts, blinking the spots out of his vision quickly only to be met by both Holts standing just in front of him.

Black veins snake and twist under their nearly translucent skin, and their eyes are clouded, grey and lifeless as they stare directly at him. Sam’s neck is caught at an impossible angle, the knob of his spine poking up against the skin as his head hangs to the side. Frozen beneath their dead stares, Shiro watches as Matt’s cracked, flaking lips slowly pull into a too wide smile that reveals teeth stained crimson.

The scream of metal twisting and tearing pierces through the hull, and Shiro jolts awake.

Chest heaving rapidly with the quickness of his breath, his eyes darts wildly around the room. It’s dark, but not in the same unnatural way of his dream. A bare light still manages to peek through the sheet hanging across the door, turning the night darkened room a solemn grey in opposition to the unending black that had stained his eyelids in his dream.

Working to settle his breathing back into something closer to normal, Shiro lets himself feel the thin mattress beneath his frame, and the threadbare sheets that tickle at his back where his shirt has ridden up.

They were both a minor luxury they were afforded due to his compliance with Katie’s— Pidge now, he reminds himself— request of blood samples. At the time, he had just been thankful that they finally had a spot to rest that wasn’t the desert floor, but now he’s even more so as the soft, worn surfaces help pull him entirely from the nightmare.

Breath slowly evening, Shiro sits up and lets his gaze find the sleeping form at his side. The soft, grey light from the hall touches Keith’s features, casting him with a peaceful look that he hasn’t seen since he’d returned.

 _Finally_ , he thinks to himself as he times his breathing with Keith’s.

Letting out a low sigh, Shiro turns his gaze from the man at his side, sliding it down to the gloved hands in his lap. The same, soft grey light filters across his palms, giving his eyes just enough illumination as he slowly pulls the leather back from his left hand.

Black veins, swollen and painful, stand stark against the pallid, deathly color of his skin.

Swallowing down the bile that sears at the back of his throat, he pulls the glove back down, hiding the truth with worn leather before leaning his back against the cool wall at the head of the bed.

Taking a deep breath, Shiro settles in for a sleepless night.

********************


	6. Baby, I Ain't Holding Your Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I guess I wouldn’t mind reminding you of my skills,” he chuckles as he carefully pulls his hand from Keith’s grasp, instead settling it on his hip. “What are you going to give me when I pin you?”
> 
> Taking a step forward, Keith feels the near overbearing heat that rolls off Shiro’s skin. This close, he can smell the near clinical smell of the soap the colony had managed to salvage as it mixes with the heady musk that is inherently Shiro’s. Breathing him in, Keith drags his teeth across the full of his bottom lip as he hums in faux thought.
> 
> “I was thinking,” he starts as he traces a finger across Shiro’s chest, right over his heart, “that pinning me would be reward enough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for going a little MIA. I moved this month and it ended up taking so much more time and effort than originally planned lol Hopefully some elements of this chapter make up for that a bit lol

Two weeks had passed since they’d landed themselves in New Altea, and the newly stagnant life was working its way beneath Keith’s skin in a way that constantly set his teeth on edge. While he could admit that there was a certain level of ease that came with having a place to rest their heads at night, it was met in equal measure by the constant thrum to get out and move.

Experience had taught him that nothing good came of staying in one spot, and especially not when it meant being trapped in a constant Garrison reunion by concrete and steel.

“Good morning, buddy,” Lance’s voice is loud and cheery as if he could hear Keith’s innermost thoughts as he helped himself to the seat beside him. A loud clatter punctuates his arrival as he drops his chipped plate on the table, accidentally knocking some of its oatmeal onto the metallic surface.

“Aw, man,” Lance whines, scooping up the lifeless tan food with a finger and shoving it into his mouth, causing Keith to blanche.

“Do you really have to subject me to your face this early?” He growls, dipping behind the lip of his mug and swallowing down a large gulp of black coffee. Stray grounds scrape across his tongue like sand as he forces the bitter liquid down his throat.

Lance makes a small humming sound as he shoves a spoonful of the sludgy oatmeal into his gaping maw.

“I know, I’m a real saint for letting you start the day with something so beautiful,” he says, words muffled by the dull metal between his teeth.

“Patron Saint of Pains in the Ass,” Keith says drily into his mug, the steam blowing back into his face before he sets the mug back down with a dull tap. Pulling the spoon from his mouth, Lance smiles and points it toward him.

“Thank you for using my full title,” he says, grin tilting further upward as Keith rolls his eyes before he turned his attention back to his food. Quiet fills the space between them as Lance hums quietly to himself between bites of the lumpy oats.

Taking another sip of his coffee, Keith traces the dark marks that scatter the top of the table.

“So,” Lance speaks up minutes later, lips smacking as he drops his spoon with a clatter. “Where’s Shiro at?”

A sharp pang rolls through Keith at the question as his hold tightens on his mug. When he’d woken that morning, it had been to Shiro’s still sleeping form violently tossing and muttering under his breath. It had taken several minutes to wake him, and even after he had, a darkness had still clung to his eyes leaving him looking almost lifeless. Fear had gripped him until Shiro had seemed to resurface, offering him a small smile of reassurance before ushering Keith on ahead of him.

“He decided to sleep in a bit longer,” Keith finally says with a noncommittal shrug as he slowly uncurls his tight fist from the mug. He doesn’t miss the quick, sharp arch of Lance’s brow, the silent question almost screaming in the quiet wrapped around their table.

“What?” He hisses, voice filled with challenge as his gaze snaps up to his companion. Lifting hid shoulders with a quick shrug, Lance places a finger on his plate and slowly turns it, keeping his eyes down as he speaks.

“Nothing, just thinking about how much it must take out of a guy to be stuck in space like that is all.”

Growling lowly, Keith snatches his mug and takes a sip, gaze still sharp and severe on Lance as he doesn’t answer. Settling his forearms on the table, Lance leans in, holding his stare as he sighs.

“So, as much as I’m really loving this cold shoulder thing you’re trying to pull off right now, I actually did have something I wanted to ask you,” he says, voice dipping low and serious in a way that catches Keith’s attention. Lowering his mug once more, he gives him a short nod to continue.

“We’re running low on some supplies, and Allura wanted me to get a group together to do a run,” Lance continues, pausing just long enough to see if Keith will interject. “Figured you’re probably going a bit crazy being cooped up in here. Wanna come with?”

The unbearable itch to be on the move seems to prickle through his veins as he pushes himself further up in his seat. Finding himself mirroring Lance’s posture as he leans forward, he mulls over the invitation.

“Yeah, alright,” Keith finally says with a small nod, “count me in.”

A self satisfied smile etches itself across Lance’s face as he sits back, crossing his arm across his chest and nods. Sitting across from him, Keith can’t help but notice the scars that decorate his forearms.

“Knew you’d be in. We leave at dawn,” he says matter-of-factly. Grabbing for his now empty plate, Lance pushes his seat back, going to stand.

“And Shiro?” Keith asks as he goes to kick the chair back under the table. A quick flicker goes across Lance’s face as it falters before he settles it back into that easy smile of his.

“I think Pidge had wanted him for some work tomorrow, actually,” Lance supplies flatly, void of any emotion in the same way as a doctor giving a diagnosis. He doesn’t say anything about the obvious fact that the colony has been keeping a close eye on Shiro since their arrival, but it’s all too clear in his voice.

Each day, Pidge summoned him for some sort of blood draw, yet they still didn’t know anything about what she was really doing. 

They may have had some semblance of freedom, but they both knew that Shiro, at least, was a prisoner shackled by his usefulness.

Slowly, Keith nods.

“Anything you need me to bring?” He asks, leveling his voice to match Lance’s.

“Just you and that angry face of yours.”

Mouth turning sharply down at the response, earning himself a bout of high laughter as Lance gives him a quick wink.

“Yeah, that one,” he says as he turns on his heel, walking away and missing the way Keith flips him off.

Sighing loudly as quiet settles around the now empty table, Keith drums his fingers on the table’s top, chewing on his thoughts like a hungry dog with a bone. Minutes pass before he grabs for his mug, tossing back the last of his coffee before standing to go find Shiro.

***

Keith finds him in the makeshift gym in the basement, surrounded by concrete and old, worn equipment. The solid sound of leather clad fists against plastic punctuates the otherwise silent space as Keith stands just inside the doorway. Eyes carving pathways along the solid lines of Shiro’s shoulders, he takes in the way the long sleeved shirt clings to his frame like a second skin.

While still not quite as well muscled as he had been, the time at the colony had helped to fill him out a bit more, leaving him looking a little less like a shadow of his former self.

Keith’s own hands balled at his sides as they ached with the need to touch.

Swallowing down the a soft sound, he moves across the untouched concrete flooring, steps silent until he was just at Shiro’s back.

“On your left,” he whispers, biting back a smirk as he watches goosebumps dot the skin across Shiro’s neck. Turning lightning quick over his shoulder, fist throwing toward him, Keith catches it easily with a hum. There was no real force behind it, nothing more than a challenging tease, and it makes Keith’s lips quirk higher into a full smile.

“Been awhile since we got to spar,” he says, voice bursting with its own challenge before he presses his lips to the back of Shiro’s captured hand. Flicking his gaze up, he peers at Shiro through his lashes, eyes glittering with overhead lights as he says, “wanna go?”

Shiro holds his stare, firm and unyielding in a way that Keith feels at the pit of his stomach before an easy smile draws itself across Shiro’s mouth.

“I guess I wouldn’t mind reminding you of my skills,” he chuckles as he carefully pulls his hand from Keith’s grasp, instead settling it on his hip. “What are you going to give me when I pin you?”

Taking a step forward, Keith feels the near overbearing heat that rolls off Shiro’s skin. This close, he can smell the near clinical smell of the soap the colony had managed to salvage as it mixes with the heady musk that is inherently Shiro’s. Breathing him in, Keith drags his teeth across the full of his bottom lip as he hums in faux thought.

“I was thinking,” he starts as he traces a finger across Shiro’s chest, right over his heart, “that pinning me would be reward enough.”

Looking up at him, Keith sees something spark brightly in his dark eyes as he takes a short step back, falling into stance.

There’s an aching, heavy moment that hangs over the both of them as they watch each other before Shiro tilts his chin quickly towards Keith.

 _Your move_ , the look says.

Keith licks a line across his lip before dropping down into his own stance, not giving Shiro any pause before moving forward with a quick, testing jab. Dodging it easily, Shiro takes two quick steps back, eyes never leaving Keith’s lithe form as he mirrors the move to keep himself just out of reach.

With the thick heat building itself into a lightning storm between them, they eye each other, watching closely before both moving at once. Excitement colors Keith’s cheeks an alluring shade of pink as he loses himself to the ebb and flow of their movements. He can’t remember the last time they were able to push each other like this.

He’s sure it was before Shiro even left on that mission that had changed them both, but that had been a lifetime ago.

Lightly bouncing on the balls of his feet as his thoughts spin through his mind, Keith’s gaze finds his opening. It’s nothing more than a split second of hesitation as Shiro shifts his foot to go on the offense instead of the defense, but Keith knows he has him.

Sweeping his foot out, he grabs for the center of Shiro’s shirt, fisting the material in his hand as he uses the opposing forces to tackle him to the ground. Keith lands with his legs straddling Shiro’s chest, his knees pinning his arms to the ground as he draws his hands up to entwine their fingers. Looking up at him, Shiro’s eyes are dark, the usual bright silver swallowed by his pupils as he watched Keith lean in close.

“So,” he says lowly, “what’s _my_ reward?”

Shiro’s answering smile is knifelike as he presses up to close the distance between them. Catching his lips, Keith burns with the sudden contact, pressing down to bring their chests flush together. The sharp sting of teeth pulls a low moan from his throat as he tightens his grasp on Shiro’s wrists. Chasing the sound, Shiro continues to press forward, filling Keith’s head with a thrilling heat. 

“Shiro,” he gasps, the name sugar sweet on his tongue as he rolls his hips, chasing the friction that is all too much and not enough. The move earns his a soft chuckle as Shiro pulls away, dropping his head back against the mat with a soft thump as he peers up at him through his lashes.

It’s a wicked look that Keith feels down to his bones.

“Best two out of three?” Shiro asks, voice a molten pool that he’s all too ready to drown in. Swallowing down the ache at the base of his throat, Keith pushes himself up before offering a hand to Shiro.

Ignoring the way Shiro’s touch fills his veins with fire as he takes his hand, Keith pulls him to his feet before taking several steps back and falling into a stance.

“Best two out of three,” he confirms as he brings his fists up in front of him.

It’s Shiro who moves first this time, taking several small, quick steps forward as he aims two blows toward Keith. Knocking them both aside easily, he turns over his shoulder, grabbing for Shiro’s closest wrist. Using his momentum, he pushes Shiro away from him before landing back in the same stance.

“Things are looking good for me if that’s the best you’ve got,” Keith laughs, bouncing slightly as he watches Shiro’s back. There’s a long pause, as if he’s gathering himself before he tilts his head to the side, a sickening crack popping through the air.

When he turns around, Shiro’s eyes are dark in a way that is all together different from earlier. Pitch black and roiling, his stare is filled with malice as he lets out a low, rumbling growl before launching himself toward Keith. Taken aback, Keith finds himself knocked back, his breath leaving him quickly as his back meets the mat.

A thrill rips through him, raising the hair on his arms as the quiet of the gym is disrupted by the sharp snap of Shiro’s teeth just barely missing his throat.

“Shiro!” Keith barks, using his forearm to push back against his throat.

Almost as if a switch was flipped, Shiro falls back onto his haunches, eyes going wide as he looks down at Keith.

“Keith, I,” he starts, cheeks going bright with the pink flush that marks his skin as his chest heaves for breath. Keith’s own breathing mirrors Shiro’s as he continues to stare up at him, unable to shake the savage look that had turned the man before him into something dangerous.

Something a lot like the monsters outside.

Opening his mouth to say something in response, the loud sound of someone clearing their throat shatters the moment.

Turning toward the intruder, Keith sees Hunk in the doorway, questioning gaze set on the both of them before he speaks.

“Pidge is looking for you, Shiro.”

****************************


End file.
